


A Modern Mephistopheles

by Wolf_of_Lilacs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crack, Demon Voldemort, Faustian Bargain, HP: EWE, M/M, Mentioned Hemipenis, Poor Life Choices, This baby's got it all!, Wingfic, so cracky that the faustian bargain tag is aspirational
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 19:09:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20214799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolf_of_Lilacs/pseuds/Wolf_of_Lilacs
Summary: Harry doesn't want immortality and sells his soul to get rid of it. But being Master of Death complicates things, and now he's stuck with...“I can be subtle when I want,” Voldemort explains without prompting. “I can even be invisible, and no one will know you have the honor of being in my company.”





	A Modern Mephistopheles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FermionCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FermionCat/gifts).

> Hi. Um. I wrote some of this drunk and finished it sober. So... Have fun?
> 
> Betaed and abetted by FermionCat, who is brilliant and wonderful and deserves all the fics. Love you.

Voldemort has wings. Leathery ones, like a bat's. Harry, Master of Death and wholly unconvinced that his bargain was actually heard, because it's too good (and also bad) to be true, also isn't convinced by Voldemort's wings.

"You don't need them. You can fly anyway. I know this with complete certainty because I was in your head once when you did it."

"Harry, Harry," Voldemort sighs, aggrieved. "I gave what was left of my soul for these things. They're vanity wings, I admit. All the rage in hell. People _really_ liked me afterword. I was even elected First Soulless Entity! Er, for like three days. Then my term ended, and there was a new fad I didn’t quite understand…" He gazes off mournfully.

"Um," Harry says. "Um, okay then."

"Quite right. Now would you mind ordering that pizza I paid you in blood for? I'm starving."

Harry grimaces at the blood that had dried rather too quickly all over his jacket. "Right."

Pizza arrives. Voldemort eats about half a piece, then says he’s done, and is there any wine left please, because he’s parched and too sober, and also he misses his Horcruxes. “Having Horcruxes is kind of like being drunk all the time, don’t you know? You don’t know? Oh, bother. You’re too sweet. Get a grip. You need to start splitting your soul young, before you’ve been deceived by the popular view that murder is bad. It isn’t bad. It’s good! It can only ever be beneficial.”

Harry groans. “Are you done? Ginny’s coming over. We’re making buffalo wings. American thing, you know?”

“Ginevra isn’t coming, Harry-James-Potter-Master-of-Death-obviously-an-arsehole-because-you-killed-me.” (Litterally, this is what Voldemort has called Harry since he arrived.) “I even sent her an owl, duplicated your handwriting.”

“You bastard!” Harry tries to punch Voldemort, but Voldemort easily dodges

“Come now, don’t be so dramatic.” He clucks his tongue in disappointment.

Coming from Lord Voldemort, this statement is utterly ridiculous, and Harry is too…too fucking annoyed to do more than gape.

Voldemort, taking this as some sort of victory, stands and strides about, hmm, _dramatically_.

“Can I get a different bargain?” Harry explodes. “All I wanted was to not be immortal anymore, and here I am stuck with _you_. It’s exhausting.”

“Oh, I’ll fulfill it, but I do not understand you.” Voldemort leans close. Very close. Too close. “It’s what I’m here for, after all. Just let me suck your soul out through your mouth for the payment, and also how do you feel about forked tongues? I’ve been very, very slightly self-conscious about mine, you know?”

Harry smashes his head into the wall behind him.

A couple hours later, Voldemort has discovered—through a variety of methods, each more creative than the last—that the Master of Death’s soul cannot be taken.

Harry —disappointed, sore, and a bit grossed out —just sighs. “Are you finished yet?”

“Any pizza left?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Most of it. Have all you want.”

“Oh, thank you, Harry. You’re too kind.”

“Aren’t I just?” Harry face-palms as Voldemort sweeps off (he’s still got the impressive robe billowing thing down, even with wings) to raid the kitchen.

A couple hours after that, it’s gotten dark out. Harry is tired. Voldemort is also tired, and his wings need a fucking massage, damn those hellhounds that dropped by after pizza and the rest of the wine to, er, remind him. So naturally Harry takes pity on him and massages them himself. He’s very good at it. And his bed is quite comfortable.

“Don’t get used to this,” Harry says, straight-faced.

“Oh, I won’t.” Voldemort does something with his tongue that has Harry groaning in satisfaction. Harry, not to be outdone, does something to one of Voldemort’s dicks. It’s all quite wonderful.

In the morning, of course, Harry wakes up with the mother of all hangovers, and when he tries to kick Voldemort out of his bed (“I wasn’t thinking straight, you know…”), Voldemort just flops across the pillows, wings splayed.

“Harry, Harry,” he pouts. “I can’t leave you until I’ve taken your soul.”

Harry stares at him. “You mean, you were serious last night. That you couldn’t.”

“I was. I suppose I shall have to follow you around like your very own Mephistopheles—”

“Who?”

Voldemort closes his eyes for a moment. “Goodness, I thought you’d done your research before making that bargain of yours. Mephistopheles, Faust’s companion and the one who ensured the payment was made in full and quite a star in hell these days. I hate him.”

“Huh,” Harry says. “Is there anyone you don’t hate?”

“I’ll get back to you on that.” Voldemort eyes Harry speculatively. “Since I can’t return to hell, thanks to you, my opinion of you may need to undergo some revision.” He bats his lashless eyes in a horrifying resemblance of flirtation.

“Ugh.” Revolted, Harry leaves the bedroom and goes off to make breakfast. He gets distracted by the massive amount of hellhound fur on the sofa and dusts it thoroughly, only to find that it isn’t merely a massive amount of fur, but a flesh and…is that blood?...hound. It looks like a Grim, but with eyes of fire and six-inch fangs.

“Shoo,” Harry tells it.

The hellhound whines and noses his hand, begging for food.

“If I give you a treat, will you leave?”

It whines again, but nods. Harry gives it the last slice of the pizza, and it wags its tail as it vanishes in a cloud of sulfurous fumes.

Voldemort joins him while he’s frying some eggs, wearing one of Harry’s old Chudley Cannons T-shirts—a Christmas gift from Ron. The orange clashes horribly with his scarlet eyes. His wings have disappeared.

“I can be subtle when I want,” Voldemort explains without prompting. “I can even be invisible, and no one will know you have the honor of being in my company.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Harry mutters, flipping the eggs. “Do I have to ask nicely?”

Voldemort presses against his back, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder. “The kissing and the rest of what we did last night was rather enjoyable. More of that would be…an acceptable exchange.”

Harry transfers the eggs to a plate and then turns around. Voldemort seems sincere, for all the strangeness of this conversation.

“Fine,” Harry says. “I did forfeit my soul, even if you can’t take it.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Harry will probably reflect on this with resignation, but if he’s going to remain immortal, this mad, entertaining, and dare he say hot Voldemort —though he’d always been attractive to Harry, no matter his form —is tolerable company.

But at the moment, their breakfast goes cold as they rehash last night’s interesting activities. It’s all quite wonderful.


End file.
